A Brother's Vision
by Darkover
Summary: A story of how Faramir's visions affected his relationships with Boromir and Denethor, and how Boromir protected Faramir. H/C. Bookverse. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated!
1. Chapter 1

7

Title: "A Brother's Vision"

Author: Darkover

Rating: K+, just to be on the safe side.

Disclaimer: The characters of "The Lord of the Rings" were created not by me, but by J.R.R. Tolkien. No copyright infringement is intended or should be inferred. I am not making any money off of this, but I am sure that the good professor would understand that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and thus would not want anyone to sue me.

Characters: Boromir, Faramir, OCs

Summary: A story of how Faramir's visions affected his relationships with Boromir and Denethor, and how Boromir protected Faramir. H/C. Bookverse. Reviews as always are greatly appreciated!

~ooo0ooo~

At the end of their practice session, Boromir exchanged bows with the Sword Master, and returned his wooden practice sword to its sheath. The Sword Master advanced and clapped the ten-year-old boy on the shoulder. "Well done, Boromir! You shall be a sword master yourself one day."

The boy wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm, and grinned up at the adult. "Thank you, sir. I would be happier if I could practice with a real sword, though."

The Sword Master smiled at him. "That day will come sooner than you think, my lad. In the meantime, continue with the wooden one, and I will see you tomorrow for our next session."

The Sword Master sheathed his own practice sword and left the room. As he did so, the Heir of the Steward heard a faint whimper from behind him. Boromir turned to see his younger brother on his knees, slumped against the wall, crying almost silently. Boromir glanced around for his brother's nurse, and noticed with irritation that as usual when she was needed, there was no sign of the woman. She seemed to find child care boring; she was certainly easily distracted, and could more frequently be found gossiping with the other servants than looking after her young charge. Boromir jogged over to Faramir.

"What is wrong, little one?" Boromir asked. "Have you cut yourself?" Faramir usually read or played quietly while his brother practiced, but there were certainly enough weapons about for a five-year-old child to injure himself. That was yet another reason why the nurse was needed. Boromir had previously mentioned to their father the Steward that Faramir's nurse was neglectful, but their father had been too preoccupied of late to do anything about it.

Faramir's face was wet with tears, but his expression was curiously blank and he seemed to be gazing at nothing, in a way that made the older boy uncomfortable. The word "seizure" was not in Boromir's vocabulary, but he knew enough to realize that this was unnatural, and it made him concerned. He put a hand on his brother's shoulder and shook him lightly; only then did the younger boy blink and seem to rouse. "Faramir? What is wrong?"

Fresh tears welled up in Faramir's eyes. "Mama," he whispered. "I saw Mama, Boromir. She was dying."

Boromir felt cold. Their mother had been ill for some time and not only was she not improving, she had recently taken a turn for the worse, but the younger boy was not supposed to know that. Boromir had been given this information only a few days ago by their father, who had also cautioned the older boy that Faramir was not to be told how serious the situation was. Denethor believed that his younger son was too young to understand and would only be frightened and worried. "Don't say that."

"I saw her. Just now. She was lying in bed, surrounded by the healers. Father was with her—"

"Faramir," the older boy interrupted, striving for reason, "you could not have seen our mother. She isn't here."

"I did see her, Boromir! I did!"

"You had a dream? You fell asleep?"

Faramir shook his head vigorously. "I wasn't asleep. I saw her, just like I see you now. I was here, then I wasn't. I was in Mama's room—or I could see Mama's room—and I saw her, just as I said. I tried to speak to her, but I couldn't. So I started to cry…" Faramir blushed and lowered his eyes at that. Even though he was only five years old, he had been told often enough by their father to stop crying, for the sons of the Steward did not cry. "I'm sorry, Boromir."

The older brother gave the younger one's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "It is all right, little one. Bad dreams can be frightening."

"I didn't dream it! I saw it! I saw Mama!" Faramir shouted.

"Ssshhh!" Boromir looked around frantically. Where *was* that nurse? The woman was never around when she was needed!

Faramir lowered his voice, but continued talking rapidly. "When I couldn't make Mama hear me, I-I started to cry. She seemed to know I was crying, though, b-because sh-she opened her eyes, looked right at me, and said: 'Goodbye.' I knew then she was dying. Then I was back here."

Boromir gave his brother a hard shake. "Stop saying that! Mama is not dying!"

Faramir's expression crumpled, and tears filled his eyes once again. The older brother was instantly remorseful. He sat down on the floor, putting his arm around the shoulders of the younger boy and pulling him close. "I am sorry, Faramir. But what you think you saw…you could not have seen it. Mother is not here. This is not her bedchamber. You must have fallen asleep and had a bad dream, that is all."

Faramir shook his head against Boromir's chest, but did not try to argue again, nor did he pull away. For some moments, the older boy held the younger and rocked him in silence. Then at last the nurse came around the corner, looking flustered. She stopped dead when she saw them and exclaimed to Faramir; "There you are! I have been looking all over for you!"

Boromir looked up at her and growled, "You could not have looked very far or for very long. He has been right here with me the whole time!"

"Don't be impertinent," the nurse said, and moved to take the younger boy from the arms of the older one.

"Just a moment," Boromir said, and looked down at Faramir. "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight, little brother?"

"Yes, Boromir!" Faramir was pleased, but surprised. "Are you sure?" As the younger child, Faramir had traditionally been given his dinner earlier, and then bathed and put to bed by their mother, who in spite of her exalted rank insisted on performing many of the child-rearing tasks herself, although of late such tasks had been left to the nurse. Boromir, being older, dined with their parents and had a later bedtime.

"Of course I'm sure!" Boromir said heartily. What Faramir did not know was that since the advent of their mother's illness, Boromir usually ate with their father only, or more frequently in the last few weeks, alone.

"I don't know about that," the nurse began officiously, but the words died on her lips as she saw the expression on Boromir's face. The older boy rose to his feet, and then stared the woman down.

"Listen to me," he said coldly, every inch the Steward's Heir. "You will take my brother—who, you will remember at all times, is a son of the Steward—and give him a warm bath. You will not leave him at any time, particularly when he is in the tub." Boromir feared that if Faramir was incapacitated by another vision, and if it occurred while he was bathing, he might drown if left alone. Boromir took a deep breath. "Then you will bring him to have dinner with me, and then, he will spend the night with me." Boromir smiled at Faramir. "Would you like to sleep in my bed tonight, little brother?" Faramir nodded vigorously.

The nurse hastily curtsied to the older boy. "Yes, my lord," she said quickly, without a trace of sarcasm.

That night, they slept together, Faramir cuddled in Boromir's arms. It was just as well that they were together, for it made things easier when in the very earliest hours of the morning, while it was still dark, they were summoned by their father's order to come to their mother's bedchamber at once. Even so, they were still too late. Lady Finduilas had died in the night, under circumstances identical to those in Faramir's vision.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

8

Title: "A Brother's Vision"

Author: Darkover

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: Please see Chapter One. 

Characters: Boromir, Faramir, Denethor, OC

Summary: A story of how Faramir's visions affected his relationships with Boromir and Denethor, and how Boromir protected Faramir. H/C. Bookverse.

~ooo0ooo~

"Boromir? Boromir, wake up!"

"Uhhh…?" The fifteen-year-old Heir of the Steward felt someone shaking him, as well as calling him imploringly, and opened his eyes. His ten-year-old brother stood beside his bed, looking worried and unusually pale, although that may have been a trick of the light; some pre-dawn illumination was just filtering through the window. Boromir sat up.

"What is it?" he asked irritably, and then noticed that the younger boy was shivering with the chill of an early winter morning. Boromir threw back the blankets. "You are cold, and you have just recently been ill! If you will not keep to your own bed, at least get into mine."

Faramir shook his head. "There is no time! Boromir, we must stop him!"

"Who?"

"Father!" Faramir said urgently. "He is about to do something dreadful, Boromir! I saw it!"

The adolescent slid out of bed, stripped off his night clothes, and swiftly drew on his breeches and other clothing. By now, he knew that when his younger brother said that he "saw" something, that was Faramir's usual way of saying he had a vision or a visionary dream. "What did you see? Where is he?"

"I do not know, but he seemed to be in a high tower. He was looking into a ball, a great burning red eye looked back—it was horrible!" Faramir shuddered.

Boromir, now dressed, picked up a fur robe and draped it around the younger boy, mindful of the fact that it had been only last week that his brother had been ill with a fever. "That does not sound so dreadful."

"It will be! Father must not look into that ball, Boromir! Please!" Faramir was agitated, obviously frightened.

Boromir sighed and nodded. "All right, little one. You stay here."

"No, we must hurry!" Faramir darted out the door, and his older brother quickly followed.

A cock crowed as the boys moved quickly through the halls, around servants who were busying themselves with early-morning tasks. As they hurried along, Faramir described his vision in more detail to Boromir. While the vision had been unclear on many details, Faramir had received the overwhelming impression that it would be bad for their father, or Gondor, or perhaps both, for the Steward to look into the "ball" which showed a "burning red eye." The ten-year-old could not be sure; all he was certain of was nothing good would come of looking into that ball. As Faramir's vision had placed their father in a tower, the two boys headed for the White Tower.

Eventually they reached the door leading to it, and began to climb the stairs to the top. At the very top, they found the chamber door shut and two of the guards of the Tower on duty directly in front of it. The guards stopped them by crossing their weapons before the door when Boromir moved to open it. "Stop," one said. "You may not enter."

Boromir looked the man directly in the eye; at fifteen, he was as tall as the guard, and almost as broad-shouldered from many years of practice with the sword and other weapons. "We are the sons of the Steward. Let us pass."

"Forgive me, lord, but you may not. We are forbidden to allow access to anyone save the Steward himself."

"Please," Faramir said, stepping out from behind his brother. "It is important!"

Any reply the guard might have given was rendered unnecessary by the opening of the door. Denethor came through, looking unusually grim, and looked at his sons as if he had never seen them before. Instead of greeting them, he turned to the guards and demanded, "What are they doing here? My orders are that no one may enter this chamber save me! Are my orders not to be obeyed?"

The boys stared at their father. Denethor had ceased to be merry upon the death of his wife five years earlier, but seldom had he appeared so grim and fell as he did now. He seemed to have aged overnight, and he appeared as one with a doom upon him. There was certainly no sign that he was pleased to see his sons.

"We wished to see you, Father," Boromir said.

"You should have waited," their father said shortly. "Why are you abroad at this hour? Come, let us break fast together, then you shall both be about your duties."

Father and sons descended the stairs together, but in spite of his offer of breakfast, Denethor led the boys to a private room in his chambers. There was only one chair, which Denethor took. There was no fire in the grate, nor did the Steward summon a servant to build one. The room was cold; even Boromir, fully clothed, could feel it. Next to him, Faramir was shivering; in spite of the robe, as he was still in his night clothes, and his feet were bare.

"What purpose had you in the tower?" their father demanded.

The boys exchanged glances. It was apparent that whatever had happened, they had not been in time to keep Faramir's vision from coming true.

"Speak!" the Steward ordered.

"As I said, Father, we wished to see you," Boromir answered.

"What was of such great import that you could not wait?" Denethor demanded.

"We were concerned about you. Faramir feared you might be in danger."

"Indeed?" Denethor turned his burning eyes to his younger son. "Why should he think such a thing?"

Boromir's uneasiness was increasing. There was nothing of concern in their father's tone, nor in the look he gave the younger boy. The Steward's tone was that of an interrogator, and he had the air of one fey. Faramir, alongside his older brother, was trembling once more, and Boromir suspected it was not just with cold. "Father, this room is cold, and Faramir has just recovered from illness. He should be sent back to bed, or at least taken where it is warm."

"He should answer his father's question," Denethor said harshly. "Why should you suspect danger, Faramir?"

"I had one of my dreams, Father," the younger boy said in a small voice.

Denethor's expression tightened. Faramir's visionary dreams were something known to the Steward and his sons, but not talked about. Not since the death of Finduilas, and the subsequent discovery that Faramir had a vision prior to that event. "What did this dream tell you?"

Faramir swallowed, but his voice came out steadily. "I saw you in a chamber in the tower, Father, looking into a glass ball. The ball held a great, burning, red eye that was aflame with malice. I could feel the malevolence radiating from it. It—it was as if it was poisoning you. I c-could tell—I *knew* that something evil would happen, if you looked into the ball."

The Steward's eyes continued to burn for a moment, and then his face lit up with a great smile. "You have had a foolish dream, my son, nothing more. I have done no such thing."

Boromir was relieved. Perhaps they had been in time after all. "Well, then, Father—"

Faramir stood very still, his eyes going blank for a moment. Then they focused again, on the Steward. "That is not so," he whispered.

Denethor's expression tightened. "Faramir—"

"My visions are true," the younger boy said, his voice rising. "You know they are true, Father. Why are you lying?"

Denethor's hand shot out, slapping Faramir's face so hard the boy's head rocked back.

"Father, stop!" Boromir shouted.

The Steward appeared to be as stunned as his sons. He looked away, then back again, although he did not make eye contact. "You must not call your father a liar, Faramir," he said, his voice carefully even. "Now, come with me, both of you. We shall break our fast together."

This time, they went to the Steward's chambers, seated themselves before a roaring fire while servants brought food and drink. The Steward then had breakfast with his sons in a pleasant, almost serene manner. Nothing was said of what had just occurred, much less of what had transpired in the tower. If not for the red mark on Faramir's face, which faded as they ate their meal together, the incident might never have happened. But after that, whenever Faramir had a vision or a visionary dream, the brothers were even less inclined to mention it to their father.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

12

Title: "A Brother's Vision"

Author: Darkover

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: Please see Chapter One. 

Characters: Boromir, Faramir, Denethor, Beregond

Summary: A story of how Faramir's visions affected his relationships with Boromir and Denethor, and how Boromir protected Faramir. H/C. Bookverse.

Author's Note: The "Seek for the Sword that was broken…" speech is a direct quote from Tolkien.

~ooo0ooo~

"How often have you had this dream?" Boromir asked quietly.

"Twice now," Faramir replied. He was pale and weary, his gray eyes haunted in a way that hurt Boromir's heart to see. As Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, keeping alive the constant struggle against the Enemy while maintaining Gondor's borders, Faramir had much cause for weariness, but Boromir feared that the mysterious dream that had visited his brother was also taking its toll. It was not the visions and occasional prophetic dreams experienced by the younger man that were bad for him, for such visions came to Faramir in the gentlest of fashion. It was how others, particularly their father the Steward, treated him afterwards that was such a burden. Faramir had learned that it was seldom wise to speak of his visions to anyone other than his brother. Still, the visions and dreams were meant to be warnings, and as such, were not to be ignored or denied. Prophetic dreams in particular tended to repeat themselves until something was done to resolve them.

Boromir put his hands on his brother's shoulders. "Faramir, you must tell Father of this."

"No!" the young Ranger said sharply. He took a deep breath, and repeated more calmly; "No. Father does not wish to hear aught of my visions, brother. He will pay them no heed."

Boromir shook his head. "He dislikes hearing of them because he takes them seriously, Faramir, not because he disdains them." Faramir still looked unhappy, and Boromir could not blame him. The younger son of the Steward seldom shared his visions or prophetic dreams with their father, for the Steward usually either dismissed them with impatience, or interrogated his younger son relentlessly. Neither was pleasant to experience. Boromir added, "The dream has come to me as well."

Faramir gave him an astonished glance. "You have dreamed of this, too?"

The older brother nodded. "Aye, and it was identical with yours. This dream persists, my brother; clearly we are meant to pay attention to it. Just as importantly, you will have no peace until you do, and our father is a great master of lore. Come, we shall go to him together."

They did so, and on this occasion, Denethor managed to be both interrogative and dismissive at the same time. After relentlessly questioning his younger son about every detail of the dream, a conversation which took the better part of an hour, his response at last was; "You should spend less time listening to the wizard, Faramir, and more time in healthier pursuits. Then, mayhap, you would not have such fanciful dreams."

"Not so, Father," Boromir protested. "I have dreamed it, too."

Denethor looked piercingly at his elder son. "Indeed? One visionary son is bad enough. Are you certain you did not simply dream of this matter because your brother had spoken to you of it already?" His tone implied that the younger son was contaminating the elder with foolish notions. Faramir lowered his eyes.

"Hardly, Father, as the dreams were identical!" Boromir snapped. He took a deep breath. He loved his father dearly and respected the older man, not least because of the burdens Denethor carried as Steward, but why could their father not see how hurtful his demeanor was toward Faramir? Boromir recited; "'Seek for the Sword that was broken,/In Imladris it dwells;/There shall be counsels taken/Stronger than Morgul-Spells./There shall be shown a token/That Doom is near at hand,/For Isildur's Bane shall waken,/And the Halfling forth shall stand.'"

When he finished speaking, all three men were silent for a moment. Boromir said, in a quieter voice; "Surely you understand, Father, that for us both to have such a dream in which those words were spoken verbatim, that the dreams must be prophetic ones?"

"Verily, and a wise man ignores such a warning at his own peril." Denethor sat up straighter, if possible; he seemed to be making up his mind about something. "Leave this to me, my sons, and speak not of it to others."

"Can you tell us nothing of the meaning of the dream, Father?" Faramir asked.

"Imladris is the name of an Elven land, many leagues to the north from here," the Steward answered. "Men call it Rivendell. The Lord of this land is Elrond Half-Elven, and it is said that he is great in wisdom and is a master of lore."

Faramir's eyes lit up at the mention of Elves. "Then should I not go to Imladris, Father? If we are to seek for the Sword that was broken—"

"No!" Denethor's voice was unusually loud. Faramir fell silent. Denethor reached out to gently ruffle his younger son's hair, letting his hand rest briefly but tenderly on Faramir's cheek. A look of surprise crossed the young man's face; the Steward made such gestures but seldom, and had not since Faramir was a boy. Denethor said, with gruff kindness; "You will remain in Gondor. I cannot spare you, my son."

"But Father—"

Denethor shook his head. "The journey is long and arduous, full of danger and doubt. No. You shall not go."

"Then I shall go, Father," Boromir offered. It seemed plain to him that at least one aspect of the dream was clear enough; someone must journey to Imladris.

"Neither of you shall go," Denethor retorted. "I can spare neither of my sons. I have made my decision, and I shall not be gainsaid."

Both sons bowed their heads in acknowledgment. Denethor was not only their father, but their liege-lord, and it was not for them to contradict his orders. But in their hearts, both sons believed this was not the end of the matter.

~ooo0ooo~

A few days later, Boromir asked for a private audience with the Steward. Without preamble he said, "Father, Faramir has had the dream once more. Surely we cannot continue to ignore it."

Denethor gazed at his elder son, an odd look in his eyes. For a moment, Boromir had the strange feeling that his father understood more about the dream than he was letting on. But before he could continue this thought, the Steward was speaking.

"Faramir will not go to Imladris. Mithrandir has fed the lad on fanciful tales of Elves ever since your brother was a small child. Such a place would overwhelm him, perhaps cause him to forget his duty."

"Faramir would never forget his duty, to our people or to you!" Boromir said hotly.

Denethor looked at his elder son, and both his gaze and his voice softened. "Mayhap I spoke too harshly. I do not say your brother would ever purposefully forget himself. But he is a dreamer, Boromir, in more ways than one. You know this to be true."

"He loves books, and lore, and peace, Father. Is that so bad?"

"Nay, my son. If all Men were like your brother, this would be a different world. In such a world, I would encourage him in these pursuits. But in times such as ours, Gondor has need of warriors, not scholars. He might not even reach Imladris; the journey is long and most arduous. Your brother is no weakling, but he is too gentle and too fanciful for such a journey. I will not give him leave to go."

"Then give me leave to go, Father. I have no interest in Elves, as well you know. I do not fear hardship or danger, and as the elder son, this journey should be mine, by duty and by right."

"Neither of you shall go," the Steward said harshly. "I will not spare either of my sons on a fool's errand."

"Father." Boromir's voice was quiet, but as steely as that of the Steward's own. "Well do we both know that Faramir's dreams and visions are not mere fancies. This dream clearly is a portent, at a time when Gondor's need is great. We cannot afford to ignore it. Surely whatever help we can find, we must accept. Even knowledge is of value. If the answer to this riddle lies in Rivendell, and you deem it unwise to send Faramir, then I must go."

For a very long moment, Denethor did not reply. Boromir waited, wondering if his sire strove with doubt or with anger. At last, the Steward spoke.

"I give you leave to go to Imladris. You may depart at first light on the morrow."

~ooo0ooo~

"Boromir!" Faramir strode up to where the older brother stood beside his horse. It was almost dawn, and the Steward's Heir was ready to depart.

"Faramir?"

"You are going to leave—for Imladris! And you were not going to tell me?" There were spots of color on each of Faramir's high cheekbones, and his normally kind, steady gray eyes were furious. It occurred to Boromir, somewhat belatedly, that he had seldom ever seen his brother truly angry. He was certainly seeing it now.

"Calm yourself, brother. I left a note—"

"A *note!*" To Boromir's shock, Faramir shoved him, hard, and then drew back a fist. Boromir grabbed it, then flung his arms around his enraged sibling, pulling the younger man to him in a close embrace. Faramir fought it for a moment, and then relaxed against him. Boromir felt his younger brother's arms wrap around him fiercely, felt the telltale hint of moisture against the curve of his neck and shoulder as Faramir buried his face there. It was unlikely that the moisture was sweat. Faramir shook for a moment; Boromir held him close and awkwardly, tenderly rubbed his back.

"Ssshhh, little brother," he whispered, even though Faramir made no sound. "I love you, too."

"Then, how—why—?" Faramir gasped. When he drew back from Boromir, his face was still wet. Boromir could feel tears in his own eyes.

"I have left on missions before, and did not say goodbye," he said lamely.

"But not like this." Faramir scrubbed angrily at his face, wiping away the tears. His anger now seemed directed at himself, rather than his older brother. "You will be gone for a very long time, Boromir. A year or more. And why does Father send you, and not me? You are Gondor's Captain-General! How are we to do without you? I can be spared much more easily." Suddenly, the anger drained away, leaving his expression bleak and sad. "Father believes I would fail, does he not?"

"Do not forget yourself," Boromir said, deliberately hardening his voice. "I am the elder son. The journey is mine by right." He would rather have Faramir angry at him, even at this moment of such a long parting, than have his younger brother believe himself to be unworthy.

But Faramir merely said; "Yes, Boromir," in such a quietly dutiful tone that Boromir could scarcely bear it. He seized his sibling, pulling Faramir toward him in a tremendous hug, kissing Faramir on the brow and on both cheeks. "Goodbye, little brother," he said. He never knew why, but he added with a slightly watery smile; "Mayhap the king shall return to Gondor, and all shall be made well again!"

"Farewell, Boromir," Faramir answered. "May the Valar watch over you!" He kissed his older brother on the brow, then stood back and gazed at him, as if trying to memorize the way he looked at that moment. At last, Faramir turned and walked away, as if he could not bear to watch as Boromir rode away.

Boromir had no such scruples; he continued to stare after Faramir until his younger brother was out of sight. Then, he became aware of another presence. Another man, an Ithilien Ranger, and thus under Faramir's command, was inside the barn, attending to one of the horses. The man must have heard and witnessed everything, although he clearly was trying to remain unobtrusive. Boromir remembered him, had a sudden inspiration, and called the man to him. "Beregond."

The man—about Boromir's age, or perhaps slightly older—stepped out of the barn and made salute to Gondor's Captain-General. "Yes sir."

"You love Captain Faramir, do you not?" Boromir said without preamble. He had visited Faramir at the latter's station in Ithilien before now, and had seen the Rangers' devotion to their Captain.

"Yes sir," Beregond said simply, with neither surprise nor hesitation.

"The Lord Faramir is a good man and a strong one," Boromir said. "But no man is without vulnerabilities. I am going on a long journey. It will be a long time before I return. I would not have my brother be alone, with no one to care for him, when…" He paused, inwardly cursing himself for his awkwardness, wishing desperately he could be more eloquent and find a way of telling this man what he wished for him to do, without embarrassing Faramir in any way.

But there was understanding in Beregond's gaze. "When he has visions, sir?" the Ranger said softly.

"Yes!" By some miracle, this man understood! Boromir added quickly; "The visions do not weaken Captain Faramir, nor have I ever known one to occur at such a time as to incapacitate him. You need have no fear that the Captain will ever be unable to perform his duty, or endanger you or any of the other men—"

A glint appeared in Beregond's eye, and he actually interrupted the Captain-General. "I would never think that, sir."

"Good. But as I will no longer be in Gondor…Beregond, I wish for you to watch over Captain Faramir in my stead. The visions happen but seldom, and never at a bad time," Boromir hastened to add, "but when they do, Captain Faramir should be cared for. Just keep him safe—warm and calm—until they pass. Listen to him when he needs to speak of them. Protect my brother as best you can if ever he should need it. Will you do this, Beregond?"

"I would do anything for Captain Faramir, sir," Beregond said.

Looking into the man's face, Boromir could see that he spoke the truth. "Thank you, Beregond. You are dismissed."

The Ranger saluted him once more, and then went on his way. Alongside him, Boromir's horse snorted and shook his mane, as if to say he had waited long enough. Boromir gave the animal a reassuring pat, then mounted into the saddle, turned his horse, and rode out of Minas Tirith in the direction of Imladris. He did not look back.


End file.
